Flinging Ghosts Off Our Backs
by lunarays
Summary: Mystery shrouds the suicide of Quatre Winner, the former L4 representative. As the truth of the supposed death was slowly revealed, the ghosts that haunt each of the players become more apparent. Eventual 34
1. Trowa

I don't own Gundam Wing and the characters.  
Thank you sis for the wonderful beta!

* * *

_12 January AC 198  
L3 colony S-6751 Circus Tent_

Catherine still called him by the name Trowa Barton, two years after Dekim Barton's death.

Trowa sometimes wondered if the wars had really happened at all.

When the transition from one lifestyle to another is too abrupt and sudden for the mind to register, the only way for the mind to cope was to seal away memories from the past lifestyle. Shove them all into a plastic box and push it under the bed to be forgotten. Life at the circus had a routine: wake up at five in the morning, praise Catherine for her excellent breakfast coffee, feed the animals, clean the cages, practice for the night show... Repeated actions soon became a familiarity, and after two years, it seemed to Trowa that he had been doing this for all his life.

The days of being a mercenary and a soldier seemed so faraway that they were almost like memories from a past life - strange yet tangible - like Dejavu. Trowa did not particularly hate those memories, but it was mildly annoying to know that he would never be able to live without the burden of his past. His current surname was a constant reminder of who he was, and what he had done. He would never be able to escape that.

And there were moments when little triggers in life would recall the faces of his past comrades from the deep recesses of his mind. When he drank Catherine's coffee he would remember Wufei's brief stay during the war; when he had to baby-sit injured animals he would be reminded of the time he took Heero under his wing; when he knew for certain that a lion cub was dying, he thought of Duo, the self-proclaimed God of Death.

Quatre Winner was a different matter altogether. He appeared more often than the others, and the resurfacing memories of the blonde usually made him feel uneasy. He thought of him whenever he saw a violin or flute (he still kept the flute given to him by Quatre); he thought of him when he heard of news from L4 (the news was usually about the L4 representative anyway); he thought of him every time he feed Daniel the lion, which Quatre had caressed (1) while convincing Trowa to send Heavyarms for destruction. Trowa could still recall the circus tour on Earth last season. As he stood on the shores of Italy looking out at the Mediterranean Sea, the afternoon sun just happened to hit the water at a particular angle to turn the sea into a very particular shade of aquamarine - identical to Quatre Winner's eyes in colour and in depth. Trowa had fidgeted, feeling awkward and slightly annoyed at the memories that popped out on their own accord.

To account for the inordinate amount of times the Arabian found his way into his head, Trowa would make a conscious effort to think of the others whenever he thought of Quatre. He tried to convince himself that it was nothing more than a wave of nostalgia - he did think of the others as frequently as he did Quatre, after all. The blonde was in no way special.

He knew he was fooling himself.

Catherine had given him a home, a family - a haven to return to, something he had longed for all his life. He felt like a jerk to want anything more. He did not know exactly what Quatre was to him anyway. Heero once told him to follow his emotions, but that could prove a challenge when one could not figure out what the emotions meant.

He did not love Quatre,_ that_ he was certain of. There had been an assassination attempt made on his blonde comrade in AC 196, and when the news of Quatre's supposed death reached him, all Trowa had felt was shock and at most, a little emptiness. He had not been grieved, had not showed any remote signs of crying, devastation or hysteria. Catherine loved him, and he could picture his sister crying and cursing him in equal measure should he fail to fulfill his promise to return from the war. By comparison, this incident was decisive proof that Trowa most definitely did _not_ love Quatre.

_Then why did he come to your mind more often than anyone else?_

Thinking about such inconclusive matters frustrated him. It brought him nothing but sleepless nights. Trowa shook his head to clear his mind of such clutter, then flopped on his bed and switched on the television with the remote. By After Colony standards, his in-tent fourteen-inch television was fairly small, but it was more than adequate for personal indulgence.

The news anchor of the ESNN had strawberry curls that stood out against her dark grey pantsuit. It was Enrida Conney, a favourite of Trowa. He liked her for her matter-of-fact attitude and neutral expression while reporting news, but today, her lack of expression nearly threw Trowa into a fit.

"...ew development regarding the death of Quatre R. Winner, representative of the L4 colony cluster. Mr. Winner's personal lawyer had called a press release to relay the representative's last words. It would seem that the shuttle explosion was not an accident, but a planned suicide. We have Anthony at the press release. Anthony, what is the latest news from Mr. Winner's lawyer?"

Trowa had dropped the unnoticed remote upon the first sentence, his head robbed of its ability to process the information. The clang of the remote hitting the floor sounded inordinately final in the momentary pause.

On screen, the studio had cut away to a live telecast of wooden podium against a whitewashed wall. Microphones of various news stations were neatly lined in front of the podium. Anthony was commenting on the situation, but he stopped abruptly when a professional looking man in black shirt and suit rose to take the podium. The lawyer's somber countenance was instantly bathed in the sterile lights of camera flashes.

The man cleared his throat and the noise at the scene quickly died down. He explained that he would now be reading word for word the message that Quatre Winner had instructed him to announce to the world after the representative's suicide. He began, his voice chill with the utter lack of emotion:

"I, Quatre Raberba Winner, son of the well-respected former L4 leader Sai-id Winner, decided to choose death over dishonour to my family name. I had acted foolishly against my family's peace-loving traditions and my father's noble ideal of pacifism. It is, however, an indisputable fact that I was the pilot of Gundam Sandrock during the Eve Wars."

Uproar ensured at the last sentence. Reporters shot up their hands demanding answers, and the directors were waving frantically to their crew to catch the biggest scoop of the century. A field day for the media industry. Trowa leaned forward to grip the sides of the TV box, resisting the urge to pound some sense into the proceedings. The lawyer's voice, so far removed from Quatre's impassioned own, continued, temporarily silencing the mob.

"It was naﶥ passion and foolish rebellion on my part - my father almost disowned me. I truly regret taking the lives of others, and wish to extend my deepest apologies to all whose lives I have affected. I have left three billion credits in the Winner War Foundation to help war-torn families rebuild their lives. The money and my life, though insufficient to atone for my sins, are all I can offer."

_No. He cannot be dead. This is just another hoax right? Another set-up death? Quatre survived two wars and an assassination He can't die now. Not like this. Not in a ridiculous suicide when all of us had fought tooth and nail to live...right?_

"A man had recently gotten hold of evidence to prove that I was a Gundam Pilot. He tried to blackmail me into going against Miss Relena's noble ideal of total pacifism, and support the arming up of L4. He could thus make his fortune in the ensuing armaments race. He even went as far as to wrongly accuse me of being the pilot of the dreaded Wing Zero which destroyed a whole colony in L4, threatening to drag my family's name into the fray. Caught in the dilemma between the just cause of total pacifism and maintaining my family's honour, I was left with no choice but death."

_Wait. Had Quatre just denied being the pilot of Wing Zero? Did the lawyer misread anything?_

"A dying man does not lie. I was the pilot of Sandrock and Sandrock only. I never piloted Wing Zero. The Winner family had nothing to do with my personal actions. Please remember that my father sacrificed himself to prevent the L4 from joining in the mindless frenzy of the arms race - he was a true hero of the peace we enjoy now. The war is over. Stop trying to find out who the other Gundam pilots are. Stop trying to figure out who did what in the war, all these do not matter. Leave the past soldiers alone. They have contributed much to the peace we now enj..."

The live broadcast was abruptly cut as Trowa punched the "off" button on the television with restrained anger. Quatre's plead to leave the past soldiers alone sounded disgustingly hypocritical under such a context.

_He lied. Not a harmless white lie, but a big fat lie. And the whole universe is going to fall for it because he covered it up with his suicide. Or supposed suicide. I refuse to believe that he would die like this, that sneaky brat._

Trowa reached for his cellphone and dialed a number from memory. There was one person who would know everything about this suicide.

"Preventers? Please connect me to Officer Chang Wufei. It's urgent. Tell him that 03 called him. Yes. He knows me."

* * *

1 - Near the end of the Blind Target manga, there is a scene of Quatre touching a lion through the bars of the lion cage. Trowa is not the only one who can tame animals. :) 


	2. Quatre

A/N: I shall be on semi-hiatus after this chapter due to RL blues. Updates shall be few and far between until the end of April. Sorry!

And since all my (current) fics happen in the same timeline, it'll be good for you to read my other fic: Talking About Life With Death before this chapter, because some of the connections quite significant. (Just little bits of details actually, you'll follow the story fine without that, just less enjoyable.) And notice the **time** that this chapter took place - it **happened a month before the first chapter!**

* * *

15th December AC 197  
L4 colony F-7812  
Winner Enterprise Headquarters

Quatre didn't like his office. No, as a matter of fact, he hated it. It was grayish, angular, cold and lacked personality. With the bookshelves against the wall, the potted plant in the corner and the working desk set right in the middle of the room, it was too typical and was utterly devoid of human elements - there was not a speck of Quatre marking in it - it didn't feel like his territory at all.

And it wasn't. The office still belonged to his father in a sense - none of the furniture had been moved since his father's demise. The refreshment drawer still contained instant coffee packs instead of teabags, and the photo frames held photos of Winner sisters whom he barely knew. Quatre had only added two personal items to the room and both of them were sitting on his desk - one was a miniature clown made of china; the other, placed just next to the doll, was a photo of a young Quatre clinging on to the arm of his slightly surprised father.

And Quatre hated more than just his office - perhaps that was why he had his elbows on the desk and head hidden in his hands, blonde tuffs sticking messily out between his fingers. A cup of cold coffee stood next to the ignored pile of paperwork, and Rashid was standing at the far end of the room, looking worriedly at his young master.

"I suck as a leader."

Rashid could barely make out the muffled groan. When he finally did, his reply was immediate.

"You know you don't."

"Oh," The blonde shifted so that his chin rested on his palm. His voice thus became more intelligible. "I suck as a politician and a CEO then."

"You know you don't."

"I know I do. I can only lead those who know me personally through example. It's not like I have Relena's charisma and her silver tongue. Thank heavens she's on our side - she can sell vegetable soup to savage lions through a TV ad."

_And she won't even need any help from my empathetic abilities to do it. Not that I can influence multiple people through a TV screen, I need a face-to-face meeting with my target, and the effects are short-lived, but still..._

When Quatre had found out that he could read other's feelings at the age of eight, he tried to stop himself from doing so. He knew it was cheating in a way - not to mention disrespectful - in his blatant disregard of other's privacy. He wouldn't enjoy being so easily read by any random stranger too. But to stop using his empathy was like trying to stop his one of his senses from functioning; it wasn't possible lest he did something terrible to himself - like pricking a pin through his own eyeball. He was not willing to smash his brains out with a hammer just to stop his ability.

So he could tell how others were feeling, and could therefore easily determine whether he was influencing people effectively. The fa�ade of innocence worked for some people, others fell for the cool logic of "Mr. Winner", while some simply needed threatening from a "Zero-System Quatre".

_A born manipulator. That's what I am._

Quatre therefore tended to acquire different personalities when he was with different people. External feelings flowed to him naturally, and he just blended in and absorbed the emotions automatically without ever realizing it. That's why he enjoyed hanging around cheerful people like Duo - oh, his dear friend - his friendly presence never failed to make Quatre near-hyperactive with exuberance.

_I miss him...I miss them. All of them._

Was he a mere reflection of others' personalities? Had he never, ever truly been himself?

No, not never. Once, he had stopped caring and threw the world away. It wasn't really a cheerful Quatre on a bright summer day, but it had been him and only him nonetheless, on that fateful day when Wing Zero was built.

Something of the thought must have shown on his face, for he was shaken out of his reverie by a gentle but powerful hand on his shoulder. It was Rashid. The Maganac had offered to stay by his side as a bodyguard after the war, choosing his Master Quatre over his desert homeland on Earth (_bless the man!_). To say that Quatre was touched and grateful would be an understatement. Rashid was the only person willing to give up so much for him, and in a way, he was like the father that Quatre never really had.

The former Gundam pilot flashed a reassuring smile to ease the worry lines on the taller man's face. It was true, however, that Quatre was tired of his life now. The L4 people had expected something more than a mere teenager to be their representative. There had been a general cry for a strong leader after the war, and Quatre did not exactly look the part with his slight frame and delicate features. They tolerated him though, mostly because of his family background and the blooming economy under his leadership. Yet the influx of investments was just an expected effect after the end of a war - the economic expansion was more of a natural cycle than the Arab's doing. Moreover, Winner Enterprise was mostly run by Quatre's sisters. All he had to do as the CEO was to sit in his office and sign documents pre-approved by his sisters.

He was getting restless.

His job was enervating - although it was not busy, it was slowly and surely wearing him down. He had an urge to flee - it was a yearning for freedom - an urge to flee his work, the humdrum routine of a rigid and cold duty. He hated his job. He had hated manipulative politicians and bloodsucking corporate business leaders as a precocious and idealistic child in the past - but now he was both.

Yet he could not, or rather, he would not flee - invisible emotions could bind more tightly than any iron chain. This office, this job, this duty were his father's legacy, and Quatre owed him more than he could ever reciprocate. It was the least he could do to stay and play his part as the obedient son that he had never been.

_A trained monkey can do my job...Hell, even a dog with an ink pad below his paw can do my job. A Samoyed _(1)_ is white, fluffy, incredibly cute and always smiling - now it could really beat me in smiling politely all day towards backstabbing business allies and irritable board members... _

Quatre's fantasy of hiring a professionally trained Samoyed was abruptly cut short by a message from his secretary.

"Mr. Winner, Mr. Smith requests a private meeting with you. Should I send him in?"

Smith was one of the more annoying members on the WE board. He'll keep pestering until he got what he wanted, so Quatre might just as well get this over and done with.

"Send him right in." Quatre flashed an apologetic smile at Rashid. The Maganac bowed slightly and turned to leave.

"I'll be waiting right outside, Master Quatre."

OoOoOoOo

"Do you know how lucky this is, Quatre? You! I would never have thought that you had it in you!" Smith gestured wildly with his portable video player as he walked straight up to Quatre's desk.

The young CEO involuntarily leaned away from the figure looming in front of him. The day when Smith called him by his first name would be the day normalcy abandoned his post.

The image of a fluffy Samoyed popped into the blonde's head as he plastered his most angelic smile on his face before he replied, "I'm afraid I don't understand, Mr. Smith. Please take a seat."

The man flopped down on the chair placed on the other side of the table, and he wasted no time in getting straight to the point. He pressed the "play" button on the video player and held it out for the Arab to see.

Quatre's eyes had narrowed into a threatening glare as the video clip ended. His smile was long gone now, but Smith was not faltered by the silent warning.

"Do you know how lucky it is," the man continued enthusiastically, "you being both the respected leader of L4 and the awe-inspiring Gundam pilot of Sandrock? They will listen to you like sheep! We can make billions by producing firearms - Gundams, you have the blueprints right? Tell them that Relena is not trustworthy and convince them of the need to arm up. None of the other colony clusters have resources like L4, they'll need to buy from us! We can, we can..."

Quatre grabbed the video player and threw it into the most convenient rubbish bin.

"You are out of your mind. I refuse to speak to you. Rashid! Rashid!"

The door flung open to reveal the agitated Maganac.

"Rashid, please see my guest out." The blonde rose and motioned for Smith to do the same.

"Wait! I could make this look ugly!" The board member deliberately raised his voice now that the door was open. "I can make a conspiracy theory about this! Who knows, you might even be the pilot of Wing..."

Rashid slammed the door shut immediately to keep the meeting private. He growled fiercely at the sitting man.

Smith sneered. He then turned to look at the young Winner heir smugly, rudely crossing his legs so that his left foot now rested on his right knee. "I would hate to drag the Winner name down. I would hate to see them demolish the war memorial named after your father. That will be a real shame, wouldn't it? It's a win-win situation, and Quatre, you are a smart boy."

The blonde Arab's fists connected with the table with a loud smack. Taking a deep breath and visibly suppressing his anger, he spoke with a voice that fairly seethed with cold rage and steely composure. Even Rashid found it unnerving.

"Gundam pilots are not known to be merciful. I advise you _not_ to tempt me."

Smith's confidence faltered somewhat under Quatre's fearsome gaze, but to his credit, he did not back down from the thinly veiled threat. Rashid found him brave despite the circumstances - any other man, especially those who knew Quatre and what he was capable of, would have turned and ran screaming for Mommy.

"Tsk, tsk," Smith's voice sounded a bit shaky, but he pressed on nonetheless. "Many of my friends have copies of the video you've just watched. If they don't receive my coded message every twelve hours, they'll expose your identity and my conspiracy theory to the world. And you know what?" Smith pulled out a recorder from his coat pocket and waved it casually. "Your threat is as good as a confession, Gundam Pilot."

At that, Rashid lunged at the man and pulled him up on his feet by his shirt collar. Smith shrieked and kicked desperately at the burly Maganac, but Rashid held fast. Quatre took the opportunity to remove the recorder from Smith's hand. It soon joined the video player in the bin after its contents were deleted.

"Argg! Let go of me! Help! HELP!"

"Enough, Rashid. I don't want a commotion here."

Smith heaved heavily as he was shoved down on the chair again. He loosened his tie and reached over the table to coolly pick up Quatre's cup of coffee. Taking a sip, he made a face and placed the cup down.

"Your coffee is cold." Smith commented. "Well, this counts as attempted assault, but I am kind enough to let it go if you'll give me an answer soon."

Quatre stood to leave his office, trusting Rashid to take care of the hateful gadgets lying in his rubbish bin. Smith called out to him from behind, "Three days! I'll give you three days!"

Then his voice was drowned out by the office noises. WE was a busy company, and life always went on as usual despite any calamity. The world still turned after his father died. Why should it be any different now that his father's honour was at stake?

As Quatre stomped out of the revolving doors of the WE headquarters into the gestalt pavement of the street, he - very deliberately - stepped on a trail of ants.

OoOoOoOo

At home, Quatre contemplated the various ways he could kill Smith and made it look like an accident, and mentally crossed them out one by one. That night, he finally called his blackmailer and gave his answer.

"Give me a month to prepare for a believable statement to explain my sudden change in my pro-peace stance."

That was all he said.

_Which are the pieces you can deploy? Which are the pieces which are not under your direct control but you can manipulate into your own advantage? Play with an objective in your head. Be specific. Be very specific. _(2)

With a plan formulating in his head, Quatre made another call to book a shuttle ticket to Earth. He'll be visiting some old friends very soon.

* * *

1 - A Samoyed is a Siberia dog breed with a sled dog heritage. Common nicknames include Smiley and Smiling Sammy, due to the permanent smile that it seems to wear. Another interesting characteristic of the breed is that these dogs have virtually no smell or "doggy odor" about them - great as indoor pets or dummy CEOs!!

2 - from my other fic Songs of Innocence and Experience. And yes, I'm indeed referencing my fics within my fics. What ego!


	3. Dorothy

18th December AC 197  
Earth - Former Sank Kingdom

----------------

Dorothy was anything but friends with that overly-naﶥ, eyes-too-big-and-wet boy, so she definitely did not welcome him into her life. But Relena was his friend, and, oh well, she could pretend to welcome him to please her most beloved Vice Foreign Minister.

And Dorothy can be pretty scary with her pretense.

Hencethe moment Quatre Winner stepped down from the shuttle on to the solid ground of Sank, a blonde whirlwind with distinguished forked eyebrows threw herself all over him. The momentum of the hug had flung both of them on the smooth marble floor of the spaceport, with Dorothy on top, wearing a half-grin, looking into dazed aquamarine eyes half-heartedly.

Relena laughed from the sidelines when Dorothy mewed out a hot and sticky "You are soooo welcomed here, Quatre!" before leaning down to wrap her arms around his neck and blew a "How many holes can I poke through you this time before you leave?" whisper into his ear.

Quatre laughed.

"Your thoughts are right on track," he whispered back, as he propped himself up on his elbows. "For I came in need of help to kill Quatre Winner."

Dorothy raised an eyebrow in curious amusement - only to be rolled over suddenly on to her back such that the Arab was now on top of her, flashing a wanton smile in return for her warm welcome. Then she was literally swept of her feet.

"Mind if I steal your knight for a few hours, princess? I promised to return her in one piece, with her clothes intact no less."

Relena swatted the air to show that she's not concerned. "Nah, do as you will. I am more worried about you and your clothes than Dorothy and hers. Stay close to my office so that I can hear your scream and come to your aid before Dorothy completely devours you."

Quatre was surprised to find that Relena's sly smile mirrored that of Dorothy. Bad influences sure spread like wild fire in autumn.

---------

Sank National College had a beautiful garden in its premises, and now that it was December a layer of soft snow covers the ground. There in the corner stood a gazebo, sheltered by the leafless twigs and surrounded by evergreen pines. Two alumni sat leisurely inside, apparently immersed in a friendly conversation about the good old days...or not.

"And so," Dorothy flipped her hair to her back while tilting her chin upwards. "What have you came to beg of me in private?"

The blonde Arab sitting across Dorothy widened his plastered, charming smile so that his eyes were but slits and he leaned forward so as to fill her visible range with himself. "Ah, that, as I have said, is for you to help me kill Quatre Winner."

"Oh, by what means? The more painful it is, the less I charge."

"By a shuttle explosion suicide, about a month from now. Poor Winner would be...emm...vaporized that even his ashes couldn't be found. At the same time I will have a new identity issued by the former Sank Kingdom."

The smile disappeared from Dorothy's face. "Are you serious?"

"Of course."

"And you want me to?"

"Convince Relena to help me. I'll make sure that the Preventers won't investigate too much into the incident...and I can arrange someone to pick me up after the fireworks. Those I can do myself, but I need you to help me convince Relena."

"With you out of the scene the workload on Relena will be doubled. Why should I help you get out of your boring life to go on happy vacation while Relena slaved herself out?"

"You should help me so that as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Relena is ignorant of the fact that I was a Gundam Pilot until my suicide. You don't want the dogs to have one more reason to chew on Relena's controversial total pacifism, do you."

Dorothy immediately shot up from her seat with an exaggerated exclamation of "Oh my God!" and smacked her own forehead for added effect. "Are you threatened?"

"..."

The young women went on to cup Quatre's cheek with both her hands looking very much concerned. Yet what she said completely contradicted with her expression.

"I can't believe that you were STUPID enough to let them get hold of the proof you've been a pilot!"

"...Thank you very much, Dorothy. You are too kind, Dorothy. Don't be so harsh on yourself, Dorothy. Although you lost a whole army of Mobile Dolls to five Gundams, Dorothy, you really aren't that much below someone so STUPID, Dorothy."

The forked eyebrows twitched. Her defeat by Quatre Winner's hand was not something she would like to be reminded of. During the final battle of the first Eve War, the mixed wavelength of Quatre's empathy with the Zero Systems they used had resulted in a freak occurrence that allowed Quatre access into her brain. Images of her childhood - of her dead parents, of her crying for the last time, of war, of death - were dug out from the deepest recess of her mind and picked up by this boy. He was the only one who saw. He was the only one who knew. And she hated him.

"You are begging for my help here, Winner." She reminded him harshly.

"Thank you. Now that I've won, does that mean you'll help?"

"Wha...?! What! You bastard!"

As Dorothy proceeded to throttle the ever irritating, smart-ass Winner heir, she was interrupted by a clear chuckle ringing from behind a pine tree. It was Quatre's turn to say "Wha...?! What!" when Relena poked her head out from her hiding place.

Dorothy gave up on her attempted murder and spoke in a half-questioning, half-complaining tone to the newcomer.

"How could you stand him?"

"Exactly the way I stand and love you, Dottie."

Quatre's lips twitched at the nickname. Then, as if he suddenly remembered something important, the blonde sprang up frantically.

"Wait! When...how much have you heard?"

"I've been here all along."

"I...I...Relena! I don't mean..."

Relena stopped his explanations with a wave of her hand. "You could have asked me personally."

"I'm sorry." Quatre lowered his head and was silent for a moment. "But it is hard to face you when I'm about to break my promise to you."

"It's okay. I understand. And I no longer need your services as a zany, because I'm no longer History's Fool. I am a princess, and I have my knight now." The former Queen of the World smiled - a brilliant smile this time, mirrored again by one Dorothy Catalonia.

Dorothy was once lost in the in the futility of war. She could not accept that her parents had just died...meaninglessly, in a meaningless war. She had to believe in the beauty of war. She had to. She told herself that it was most honourable to die fighting, because her parents, even her grandfather, had chosen war over her, and left her alone among the gunpowder and corpses.

But Relena came along. And Quatre Winner...he...he...came, too. He didn't came along, he came _into_.

And she hated him.

"But...how did you...why are you hiding there?" Quatre pressed on.

Relena's chuckle sounded like rain hitting on bells. Dorothy smirked at his anxiousness.

"You came to talk to Dottie privately before talking to me. It's quite obvious that you're hiding something up your sleeve."

Oh. Quatre thought. So that was what that sly smile had meant.

"And now!" Dorothy announced enthusiastically and clapped her hands together. "Let's write the elegy!"

"Elegy!! Aren't you skipping a few steps?!"

Ignoring the Arab, Relena placed her forefinger on her chin, apparently deep in thought. "But I want to make the fake birth certificate first. I want to put 'Susie' as his name as a punishment for trying to hide the truth from me."

"Susie?!!"

"You are a genius, 'lena." Dorothy purred. "but let's get indoors before we begin our great plans."

And so, in the solemn office of the Very Important Vice Foreign Minister Darlian Former Queen of the World, three teenagers could be seen lying on the floor on their tummies, laughing and cheering as they wrote the elegy of one of their own, on this strangely peaceful winter day.

* * *

Omake- Elegy Writing 

R: Are you ticklish?  
Q: No!  
R: Okay. (writes) 'he was very ticklish behind his ear.'  
D: (snatches the paper and writes) 'he was pretty poor at chess too, though he never admitted to that. What a sore loser! The Quatre I knew was a paradox of his own name!'  
Q: Hey! If you dare write that I'll get a bitch and name her Dorothy!

-----

The author crawls back into her hole to do what's she's supposed to be doing.


End file.
